“Stells, you must be blind or in some serious denial. He looks at you like he’s mentally taste-testing his sauces off your tits.”

Instantly, my nipples go stiff, but it isn’t from picturing Richard doing that. No, my mind sticks on a certain rocker who glances down at my chest like he wants to do the same thing to me.

A flush washes over his cheeks, and his jaw tightens when he meets my eyes. “You have to know this. You’re too sharp to miss something like that.”

I refrain from scoffing, but barely. “If he was so into me, why did he practically push you into taking me to his restaurant?”

“To see if I want to fuck you too.”

A strangled sound sticks in my throat. I swallow hard and glance toward the party. If I run for it, will he chase me? Probably.

Silence stretches between us, and John clearly bites back a smile. “You’re not going to ask the obvious question?”

Heat spreads over my skin. “No.”

I sound like the utter chicken I am. I can’t help it. In my head, I like to think I’m badass but reality has me thinking Abort! Abort! Hot rock star will set fire to your panties and you will burn.

My lips pinch at my own absurdity.

John ducks his head to meet my eyes. His are bright with amusement. “Hmmm,” he angles his body into mine, “here’s the thing. I hear Richard saying he pays for your company and—”

“You’re unbelievable.” I snort and take a step back. “I knew that’s what this was about.”

“No. You don’t understand. I’m worried for you, okay?” He grabs my hand again and gives my arm a little shake. “It isn’t safe. I don’t care what anyone says, or how well you vet your clients. I’ve seen escorts at parties. Places like this.” His free arm swings out toward the hall. “There are fucked-up, bad dudes who will do shit to women without flinching. And believe me, they don’t look like villains. You won’t always see them coming. It just takes one bad egg, Stells.”

He appears so genuinely upset that my irritation thaws. But he’s on a roll and doesn’t notice.

“I’m not trying to shame you or police you or whatever it is you thinking I’m doing here. Yeah, okay, I fucking hate the idea of those guys paying for the ‘pleasure of your company,’ as Richard put it—which, can I just say this now? What the fuck was that sleazy shit? He should be better than that. You realize this, right? I mean, fuck.”

John pushes a hand through his hair and the thick strands stick up every which way. “Your body should be a privilege, not a product.”

I fight a smile because he is adorable up there on his soapbox, swinging his sword for me. I see the second it registers that I’m not fighting him. He blinks a few times, his pugnacious expression turning wry. “You were just going to let me go on and on, weren’t you?”

“It was a lovely speech.” I lose hold of my smile. “How could I halt it?”

His eyes narrow, and it’s clear he’s trying not to laugh.

My smile grows, but I keep my voice low. “I’m not an escort, John.”

The hard set of his shoulders eases and somehow he’s closer. “Okay. Good. I’m glad.”

His stilted delivery is awkward, totally unlike his natural ease, and I have to fight a laugh. He obviously sees my struggle and grins wide. The air between us shifts. I’m filled with a strange giddiness, wanting to laugh for the fun of it, but I’m also too warm, my limbs oddly heavy as if simple movements might be too much for me.

His tone turns soft and cajoling, teasing the truth out of me. “Are you going to tell me what you do?” When I say nothing, the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I see. You’re going to torture me a bit.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling grows as I shrug. “Torture feels apropos in this scenario.”

He hums again, taking another step toward me. “What makes you think I won’t like being tortured by you?”

The heat of his body and the scent of his skin makes my head light and my pulse pound. How did it get to this point where the highlight of my day is flirting with Jax Blackwood? Despite the thrill, I know I’m in over my head. I haven’t gone out on a date in months because I form attachments, I get emotional, and then I hurt when they inevitably leave. And this man will leave. He is as bright and fleeting as a camera flash. I’ll be left with the image of him seared into my memory and nothing more.

I tell myself all of this, the voice in my head as stern as possible. But it doesn’t make me back away. It doesn’t stop my body from somehow straining toward his without even moving. Because it might be stupid of me, but I want to feel something that isn’t planned. Something, for however briefly, that’s real.

He’s too attuned to me not to notice. John’s lids lower as his attention slides down my body before easing back up to my face. Slowly, he rests his forearm on the wall beside my head. “Tell me, Stella,” he murmurs.

“No,” I whisper back, flirting, even though I shouldn’t.

His biceps bunch as he leans in, a smile dancing on his lips. “Tell.”

My breasts graze his chest, and I feel it in my toes.

“You’re crowding me.” I hate how breathy I sound.

“Can’t help it.” His voice is a rumble, the heat of his breath playing over my skin. He ducks his head, drawing close until our lips nearly brush, and when he speaks again, his tone is almost conversational, except for the husky quality that touches deep within my core. “You smell like strawberries. Fucking delicious.”

My lids flutter, and I swallow hard. “Ordinarily, I’d call you out on that cliché but since I’ve been eating strawberries, you aren’t exactly wrong.”

His chuckle is slow and easy, as he eases back and his gaze slowly travels over my face. “Were they sweet, Stella Button?”

He’s looking at my mouth like he might try to find out. My lips tremble in response, and John tracks the movement, his breathing getting deeper, faster. “You have two freckles on your lips. One on the top lip and one on the bottom corner.”

Those damn freckles. They were the bane of my adolescence. I hid them with lipstick and silently cursed whenever someone mentioned them.

Freckles don’t have any feelings, but I swear it’s as if he’s touching them.

“You’re just noticing this?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but it comes out weak and thready.

His own lips quirk. “Oh, I noticed. It’s distracting as hell. They’re like two little dots of butter toffee. Makes me want to lick them, get a taste.”

Oh, God. Lick them, please. I can almost feel it. I want to feel it.

No. Bad Stella. Behave.

John’s lips part a fraction like he just might take that taste.

“Back off,” I whisper. And yet somehow my traitorous hands find their way to his sides, running over the waistband of his jeans, holding him there.

John makes a sound deep in his throat and tilts his hips, pressing them against mine. A distinctly thick bulge nudges my belly. Both of us lose a breath, and then he’s closer, his cheek touching my temple. “You’ll have to let me go first.”

My thumbs slide under the edge of his shirt and find smooth, taut skin. A tremor goes through his body. I try to think, search for what the hell we’ve been talking about.